I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
by Smidgie
Summary: Sequel to go waltzing out in blue and red. Sarah Jane returns the favour. Or: the one in which Time Lords have no concept of blowjobs.


Sequel to **_go waltzing out in blue and red_**. Sarah Jane returns the favour. Or: the one in which Time Lords have no concept of blowjobs.

Doctor Who belongs to the BBC.

* * *

**_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_**

So it's two am and she's giving the Doctor a blowjob.

Wait.

Maybe she should explain. Start at the beginning, or whatever. Where is the beginning? His first body (third, really, but the first she knew him in), or the moment he regenerated into her now-Doctor, all teeth and curls and would you like a jelly baby?

She comes into the console room late at night - or so it feels. Truly, there is no night or day in the TARDIS, save for the eternal rhythms of sleep-wake-sleep. The Doctor had seen her off with a wave of the hand and a quick, staccato good night as he twiddled with his beloved machine. He's been odd for weeks, but she staunchly refuses to think about the reason why. She knows it, he knows it, they both know they other knows it and yet it has passed without comment into the vault of 'topics not to be discussed'.

And yet she tosses and turns, uncomfortable within her own skin. It's been almost a month (as time in the TARDIS goes, of course) and the intensity in his sky eyes is ever growing. She'd thought, before, that night on that planet in the midst of so much decadence and celebration, she'd thought -

Well. That was a thought best not explored. Groaning, she flings back her covers, padding quietly down the hallway. She briefly considers stopping in the kitchen for tea but decides against it, pressing on in favour of teasing the Doctor into stopping somewhere for chips. She rounds the corner, expecting to see him tinkering with the console or playing with one of his many multi-dimensional toys, but instead -

Instead he is slumped over the console, head pillowed on the hard surface, a handle slowly imprinting itself into his cheek. She thought he might be sleeping but his eyes shutter open, flicking to her with the usual speed. "Can't sleep?" he asks, voice even more gravely than usual, hat and coat abandoned on the floor. He really is the least tidy man she's ever met, she thinks exasperatedly.

"Much the same as you," she replies.

"Ah," he grumbles. "So the reverberation of the huon particles in relation to the atmospheric conditions of our current location is giving you a splitting headache, too?"

She blinks, tries to sort her way through what he's just said, and eventually comes up with, "Why don't we just go to a different planet, then?"

"Actually, it's an asteroid," he corrects. "I was forced to make a… impromptu landing."

"'Impromptu' meaning 'emergency'?" she questions, and his irate expression confirms her guess. "Asteroid, planet, whatever. Let's just go somewhere else."

"It's not that simple," he growls, but she's enjoying needling him too much to stop.

"Yes, it is," she retorts, knowing she's being facetious and not caring because riling him up is her only distraction at the moment. "You flick the switchy thing, jump around the console a bit, the floor shakes and then bang, presto! We're on the other side of the galaxy. You could do that!"

He shoots her a withering glare. Don't be ridiculous, Sarah Jane, it says. "I could," he says with exaggerated patience, "But the internal systems are calibrating and will be for several more hours. We are, for lack of a better word, grounded until they complete the cycle." And just when she's about to keep vexing him, or maybe take offence to the glare, he rubs his neck and offers up a truly pathetic expression. "Hate headaches," he grumps, and just like that she melts, crossing the room to look closely into his eyes. They are clouded with pain, a nerve twitching in his temple, and she almost suggests an aspirin before remembering it would likely kill him instead. One way to stop pain, she muses morbidly, before coming to a decision.

"Let me help," she says quietly, oh so quietly, and the hum of the TARDIS is the only answer she gets, save for his grim, tight-lipped nod. He must be in a lot of pain, to agree to let her help him without even knowing what it is she proposes. "Sit up straight," she coaxes, and he complies, straightening his spine with a groan. Seated, he is just the right height for her to touch his neck, ignoring his faint shiver, and feel the muscles like stone beneath her hand. She flexes her fingers, remembering massaging Aunt Lavinia's head and shoulders when she got one of her migraines.

"Sarah, what are you doing - oh," he trails off, as she digs her thumbs into the knotted muscle.

"there are lots of different reasons for headaches in humans," she says softly as she rubs a particularly knotted spot. "Dehydration and hormones, neck or eye strain, various medications or even high blood pressure. Once you work out what kind it is, it's easier to get rid of it. I'm not sure what category huon particles and atmospheric pressure fall into, though -"

He huffs out a tired laugh and, heartened, she continues. "You should know all of this," she teases lightly. "You are a doctor, after all."

"Not that kind of doctor," he murmurs, breathless, and she flicks him lightly on the ear. "Ouch!"

"Stop it," she chides, relieved he's distracted sufficiently to joke. "You big baby. I barely touched you."

She works in silence, climbing the column of his neck to massage his scalp, surreptitiously enjoying the silkiness of his curls through her fingers. Then around, to press firmly against his temples, and then back down his neck and down his shoulders. Finally, she removes her hands from him, her fingers aching.

"How is it?" she asks, and he rolls his neck experimentally, crinkling his nose a little.

"Better," he allows, swinging round on his chair to look her in the eye. "But still there. Any other treatments you know of, Doctor Smith?"

She can't help the bright grin she gives him. "Sleep, water, and orgasms," she replies cheekily, and is rewarded by the expression of utter dumbfounded confusion on his face.

"I understand the necessity of sleep and hydration," he says finally. "But the other, not so much." She finds herself flushing a little, she hadn't exactly expected him to question it. She'd meant to tease him, but he'd turned it around on her.

"It… can help," she says haltingly. "For some people, I mean. Whenever I get a really bad headache, sometimes I do… that, and it does help. Something to do with the hormone release being a natural pain killer. Jesus, I don't know, forget I said it."

"No, I'm intrigued," he replies, eyes bright, and she glimpses a faint twinkle of amusement. "Sarah, you are full of unexpected knowledge."

She blushes even more, scuffing her foot against the ground, and looks down. At least, she would have, except her gaze gets snagged along the way.

"Doctor," she mumbles, staring pointedly at his crotch, and he follows her gaze down to where his erection is clear through his trousers.

"Ah, that," he replies, as though it was nothing. "Apologies, Sarah. A natural reaction to your touch and presence, my dear." And that makes it about as clear as mud, she thinks sarcastically.

"I thought Time Lords didn't -" she begins, but is cut off by the sight of his shaking head, his wry laugh.

"Sarah, Sarah," he replies. "Despite my race having to resort to asexual reproduction due to our sterility issues, I can assure you, all of my… _parts _are in working order. This is what you do to me, simply with your presence and your touch." And she's both pleased and immensely flattered, but still utterly confused.

"Are you sure the huon particles aren't affecting your personality, too?" she asks suspiciously. It'd be typical her, after all, to sleep with the Doctor and have it all down to one of those ridiculous 'the alien [insert as required] made us do it' plotlines on those 5000 A.D. sitcoms.

"Hardly," he replies somewhat sharply, and that tone of exasperated irritation is all his. "I am completely myself."

"Then what's changed your mind?" she questions before she can shut her mouth. You bloody fool, she berates herself. The Doctor merely lifts an eyebrow, damnable man that he is, and shrugs.

"You were inebriated," he replies simply. "I could not take advantage of you in your intoxicated state." It is as though the stars had suddenly aligned, and she cannot breathe. A month of wondering why he hadn't mentioned it, that marvellous night she sometimes wonders if she dreamed. If he'd merely walked her back to the TARDIS and tucked her neatly into bed and she'd dreamed of him, his hands and his lips and his desire for her.

"You mean - I've been pussyfooting around you for weeks, thinking you didn't want me - why the hell didn't you bring it up?" she demands. And it is that which makes him lower his eyes to the floor, a faint crimson banner spreading along his cheeks.

"You were drunk," he repeats softly, staring at his boots. "I thought that was the - the reason, for your sudden interest. I thought -"

"That anyone would do?" she questions harshly, and he flinches, still captivated by his feet. "That I'd do anyone?"

"You seemed very interested in that young man," he replies. "I thought, perhaps I was merely a replacement, for the one you truly wanted."

Oh, for the love of God. The confounded, blessed, painfully insecure man. "I went with him because he reminded me of you," she pronounces clearly, and his eyes zip up from the floor like they are magnetised to hers. "I thought you'd never be interested. I was tired of waiting. I wanted -"

He cut her off with his lips, lifting her easily off the ground, and she kissed him back wholeheartedly, but a moment later he tugs his lips away with a groan of pain. "Ouch," he grunts, and she finds his hand with hers, squeezing hard. "Might need to avail myself of those last resources," and when her eyes go wide he must realise what he's said.

"Not like that!" he protests, and her astonishment gives way to amusement. "Sleep and water! Sleep and water! Not the other one!"

"Will the TARDIS be all right if you go lie down for a while?" she asks, and he makes a harrumphing noise scornfully.

"Don't be silly, Sarah," he intones with superiority. She kind of wants to punch him when he does that. "I shall sleep here. On the console. I'll be very… comfortable. Oh, all right," he sighs, giving in to her silent glare. "I shall retire to my bedroom for a few hours."

"I'll bring you some water," she replies, already heading to the kitchen.

"And tea? Perhaps some jammie dodgers? Ooh, jelly babies…"

"Doctor!"

_xx_

He's lying on his back staring up at the ceiling when she returns. She enters, balancing two mugs of tea, a glass of water, and a plate of orange creams. She sighs in pure exasperation; he hadn't even taken his boots off, for Christ's sake. She wrests one and then the other off, grabbing his socks for good measure. His feet are reassuringly normal, big man feet, but he's already sitting up, grabbing for the tea.

"Let it cool, for God's sake!"

"Superior physiology," he mumbles, stuffing three biscuits into his mouth and blowing on his tea. "Impossible to get burnt - ouch!"

"You just proved my point."

"I refuse to concede."

"Of course you do. Save me some biscuits while I get you more water."

She returns to a single, solitary biscuit on the plate, and the Doctor once more lying back on his bed, legs dangling over the side. "I saved you some," he says, apropos of nothing, and she grumbles under her breath.

"You saved me one," she replies, ignoring the biscuit and flopping down on the bed beside him. "Now try and get some sleep."

"I can't," he retorts. "I slept three days ago. I'm not ready yet." She huffs in annoyance.

"Then what are you doing in here?"

He doesn't reply in words; rather, a quick tug and she's perched on top of him, blinking a little at her sudden change in circumstance. "Oh," she says. "I get it now." And she lowers her lips to his.

The Doctor kisses like he's unaccustomed to it, like it's been a long time, and hell, she doesn't know, maybe it has. His hands lie dormant at his side until she picks them up and settles them on her hips; it is invitation enough, his grip bruising and yet tender, fingers stroking along the crest of her hipbone.

"Headache?" she questions, but his answer is not in his tightly clenched eyes, or his lips thin and pressed white, but the heavy furrow creasing his forehead.

"Kiss me again," he replies, and it would be trite and commonplace and so very foolish except for his erection poking her hard in the hip. And it's the easiest thing in the world to brush her fingers against him, feeling him twitch through his trousers, his gasp into her mouth. When she lowers her head to kiss along the taut length of his throat and down the ridge of his collarbone he _shudders_, and she wonders how long it's been since someone touched him like this.

He enquires hesitantly, "How do you wish to do this?" She grins wickedly, enjoying the flush on his cheeks as she yanks his jumper over his head and starts in on his buttons.

"Well," she drawls out as she strips him of his shirt. "Oh." He is lean and sinewy and utterly perfect, and every half-imagined fantasy or momentary daydream has not prepared her for the sight of him.

He crosses his arms across his chest almost defensively. "Am I so different to human men?" he asks tartly and she blinks, recalled to herself.

"Very like," she replies, and his scowl deepens.

"Then why are you staring?" he grumbles.

"Because you're marvellous," she retorts, and his cheeks, already pink, bloom a deeper shade of red.

"Oh, well - that's - I suppose…" It's so easy to fluster him, once you know how. It's taken you so long, to be able to unsettle him as he's always been able to unsettle you. "Where were we?"

"How do we wish to do this?"

"Yes, of course. We could, ah, well, I think perhaps -"

"It's simple," she cuts him off, but not before he's stammered and faltered his way through trying to say what he means. "Hands, mouth, or…" She trails off. He's staring at her in pure confusion.

"Mouth?"

"Mouth," she assures him. "You've never…" This time, it is her turn to falter.

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean, Sarah." And maybe it's wrong of her to take that as a challenge.

She'll just have to try it then and determinedly, she starts to undo his trousers.

"What are you doing?" he asks, propping himself on his elbows ,as she works stubbornly at his buttons. There's a hint of panic in his eyes and in response, she slips off her dressing gown. And that silences him, his eyes drinking in every inch of her, because she isn't wearing anything underneath.

"Don't you trust me?" she counters, and sighing, he lies back down, helping her shuck off his trousers to leave him completely bare.

"Very well, although I don't see what you're going to do down there with your mouth…. Oh, gods."

She takes him in her mouth gently and the shudder that wracks through him is divine, so unbearably perfect and one of his strong, long-fingered hands through her hair as he moans a delicious symphony of breathy, shocked noises.

Well. Evidently they don't do this on Gallifrey.

She's done this before but she hated it. Among her few girlfriends it had been a topic discussed in low and scandalised tones as though there was no greater sin, and so in defiance of them and everyone else (although she never told anyone) she had gotten to her knees before a boy from one of her classes and got it over with.

He had seemed to like it well enough. She had brushed her teeth for half an hour straight.

But this is different, excruciatingly so. The Doctor tastes salty but not overpoweringly, with an undertone of sweetness; utterly alien but bearable. The coolness of his skin she is accustomed to, the double thunder of his heartbeat is a regular feature she's glimpsed before in the tight press of hand in hand, running without pause.

She swallows him as deep as she can and is rewarded by his hands creeping into her hair, tentative and enchanting.

His hands grip her head hard and he speaks lovely strings of words like music. She can't understand a word of it but she's heard it before, in a more guttural form when he's tinkering with the TARDIS and he messes something up. It's Gallifreyan, the one language the TARDIS chooses not to translate. Well, she won't tolerate some profanity, and sometimes she does it just to irk the Doctor, Sarah is sure. He alternates between fluid Gallifreyan and broken English.

"Oh dear sweet hell, _Sarah_," he gasps, and the sound of it thrums sweetness and heat through her. He comes hot and salty on her tongue and the surprise of it has her swallowing, it not nearly as terrible as the last time she did this and she had to spit it into her palm. His hands are tugging at her cheek, her jaw, to pull her up into his arms and curl her against him. The Doctor's a cuddler. It makes her smile, even as she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and snuggles into his shoulder, as drowsily he pulls a blanket over them both.

His skin is as cool as ever and she can hear both of his heartbeats if she presses her ear to the centre of his chest, but this is the closest she has ever felt to home. Long minutes pass, slipping away like pearls on a string, like a delicate melody being played once, and then nevermore.

"How's the headache?" she asks once more, but there is no reply. She lifts her head from his chest, curious. Finally, he sleeps, face free of the crumples of care it has carried for so long. Typical man, she thinks, but it is with fondness. She tugs the blankets over him so he won't get cold, collects the cups and plate, popping the last biscuit into her mouth.

At the threshold she pauses, but all she can see of him from here is a big lump under the blankets. A whispered command to the TARDIS turns off the lights, and she shuts the door behind her.


End file.
